Embracing the Label: Week 3 in Review

"Before you know it, the weeks will become months, which will fast become years. In no time, you'll be eighty-five years old and sitting on a porch somewhere, looking back on your life, and reminiscing about all the many things you've accomplished. And when you get to that point, I promise you this: Those activities and errands that seem so essential right now - composing the company's annual report, passing that English exam, arranging for competent child care - all of these things that seem so crucial will not be recalled with pride or fondness. In fact, you won't remember a single one of them. Decades from now, however, you will remember that ineffable moment when the word counter ran its computery calculation over your book and announced that you had reached the 50,000-word endpoint. You'll smilingly recall that time you were stupid enough to sign up for the challenge of a lifetime, and mighty enough to see it through. You will remember that month, that hectic, harried month, when you made a promise to yourself, when you set off on an impossible quixotic quest, and nailed it."

~ Chris Baty, "No Plot? No Problem!"

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up for me.

I still struggle to recall how I began this thing. I can't remember, honestly, when or how this idea took root in my brain, or how I decided that I was going to flesh it out once and for all with the help of this book. I would, however, wholeheartedly recommend it as a guidebook for anyone who's ever written anything longer than a shopping list. Everyone's got an inner writer. Most of us have kept a journal in our younger years, or keep a blog in this technological age that has pen and paper fast becoming obsolete. For my part, I am never without a notepad in my travels, and can frequently be seen wandering around with a pencil stuck through my ponytail to the point where I have added fun pencils emblazoned with motorcycles or flaming skulls or zombies (the latter two are especially prevalent now that Halloween is on the horizon) to my list of favorite things, which also includes goofy T-shirts, vodka cranberry cocktails, and bands nobody has ever heard of. Which makes me wonder why it took me twenty-eight years to come to one conclusion.

I, in fact, am a writer.

When I meet new people (which is frequently these days), one of the first getting-to-know-you questions is always "what do you do for a living?" I dread it, because honestly, I don't really feel any passion for what I do all day long. I always envied people who could sum up what they do in one or two words: "I'm a policeman." "A doctor." "A teacher." "A photographer." Nobody really needs any elaboration beyond that to describe what they do all day, although some of the specifics (what location they work in, or what their area of expertise is) can be filled in for conversation's sake. Each time I sit down at the keys, one thing that motivates me, aside from the fact that I really am starting to love the story and the characters, is the notion that once I'm through, I will officially be able to term myself "a writer." When I meet new people, or even eventually when it comes time to fill out tax or other official forms, I can answer, with all honesty, writer. And that, to me, would feel really, really good.

Truth be told (or if you listen to my mother), I've always been a writer. I can still quote, word-for-word, a silly poem I wrote about ponies when I was eight. (Hey, I thought it was pretty good at the time.) I won essay contests throughout my middle and high school years. My college English teacher practically submitted an application for my sainthood when I wrote an analysis of the lyrics of American Pie. (Granted, she was a pretty solid hippie, but I'm still chalking that one up as a victory.) I never majored in writing, though. Never took more than two formal classes on the subject. For whatever reason, though I loved it, I didn't want it to be my life. I chose something else... something else that, despite my efforts, never chose me.

I'm not going to get too philosophical here, because I do have a word count to uphold, but I've made a very, very large number of incorrect choices in my life, the most recent of which still has me smarting a bit. It frustrates me to no end that most of the decisions I make don't seem to be right for me. And while I still don't know if I believe in fate or destiny or any of that fun, poetic junk, I do think that those concepts were invented to make people feel better about things they just don't understand. And really, if it makes you feel better, who in the hell cares whether or not it's actually valid? So at the moment, I choose to believe that none of those things that I wanted were really a good fit for me, and that was why they didn't end up working out. I consider myself lucky to be rid of most of them before I'd committed to any big mistake for an extended period of time, because a mistake is a mistake no matter how long it goes on, and better to realize it after a day or a week or six months than to have it blow up twenty years from now and suddenly wonder what you'd been doing all this time.

So despite many of the wrong things coming to an end recently, I've found one thing, at least, that has gone horribly, hideously right. And I find myself falling into something that comes as naturally to me as breathing, and I think, "God, was anything ever this hard, or this easy? Is this really what it's supposed to be like?" Nothing worthwhile is ever simple. But I think when it's right, it's going to feel completely and utterly effortless, despite the dishes you broke and the sins you committed and the friends you lost and the sweat that poured over your face to bring you there. I honestly believe, because I choose to believe it, that this thing came into my life for the express purpose of saying, "See this? This is how right feels."

So whenever I come across a situation in the future that I'm really not certain about, I'm going to look back and remember the most grueling, and most satisfying, month of my life and ask, "Does it feel like that?" If the answer is no, I'm going to shelve it post-haste. If, however, the answer is yes, I'm going to stride up with head high to meet it, hold my hand out, and say, "Hi there, I'm a writer."


Snippets:

Day 15:
“It was an easy match, you see. Master White was thrilled; Ananias was by then an accomplished craftsman, and over the ensuing years built an admirable living for himself. He was patient, though, and by the close of the fourth year... of his courtship of Eleanor, he had accumulated enough wealth that he was able to persuade her father that she should never want for anything in life. Something that a mere apprentice,” he said with just a hint of wistfulness, “could never offer. In the spring of 1585, they were wed in St. Bride’s Cathedral. Later that same year, in the kirkyard, I buried first my father, then my mother, and at length my young sister Agnes, all taken with the Black Death. I…” he said softly, with a tinge of something today’s psychology would have referred to as ‘survivor’s guilt,’ “…having been years out of the home, was spared.”

Without my having realized it, my hand had drifted over to settle upon his. His eyes, having been cast toward his lap, lifted to meet mine. As they did, his hand turned over so that our palms met, and his thumb ran absently over my knuckles. An involuntary shiver ran down my spine, which he met with an answering squeeze.

“What happened then?” I asked quietly.

“I had little time for grief,” he said, “As by then preparations were well underway for England’s first voyage to Virginia. I sat with Master White in his study upon many evenings until the candle’s wick burned clean down to the nub as he went over and over again his list of candidates for the voyage. I tried to ignore the blush that crept to my cheeks even with the coming winter’s chill, or the rattle I felt in my chest whenever I attempted a breath too deep. By the time the sails were lifted, I had taken to my bed with a fitful ague. Master White and his gentlemen sailed for the new world, I having been deemed far too ill to make the journey. Prior to his departure, though, he left me with this.” He held up his free hand, displaying the signet ring once more. “For my years of faithful servitude and excellence in the craft, as he said, he had granted unto me upon Her Majesty’s authority the status of gentleman, and with it a crest that would signify the name of Kendall from that day forth. ‘Virtue,’ he told me, ‘though repressed, shall rise again.’ He told me I’d been as a son to him, and would not say as such at time, but I fully expect he thought I would be buried not long after in that ring, and with it, my epitaph already written.”

I thought of the photograph I had seen, the slab of cold, unforgiving granite upon which his name had been written, and another shiver passed through me, this one a violent shudder. He felt it through my fingertips, and gripped my hand all the more tightly.

“Lanie?” He questioned, his eyes seeking.

“I’m fine,” I skirted, looking hurriedly over to the teacup. “I just felt a little… cold.”

Day 16:
I watched through bleary eyes as he rose, turned to stand before me, and amid my feeble protests, took my hands in his own. “Ready, then?” He asked, and before I’d had a chance to respond, he’d pulled me to my feet. The sudden shif...t of my center of gravity sent me lurching forward in overcompensation, and I held my hands out instinctively to break my fall. They landed firmly upon his chest, and the sudden impact brought me momentarily back to alertness. I glanced up, and was amazed to find his face mere perilous inches from my own.

My defenses were tragically lacking, and my heart found no resistance when it sought to begin hammering in my chest. I had never had the chance to study him this closely before, and now that he was so startlingly near, I found myself completely unable to pass an analytical eye over his features, to imagine with a scientist’s probing view how his prominent, sculpted features must have served him well in his time. Had I been able, I would have marveled at how the high, arched hairline gave him a regal air that gave the viewer to understand, under no uncertain terms, that he was nothing short of formidable. How the deep, murky brown of his eyes took in everything around him, but gave little away. What noble, intelligent words must have issued forth from his lips, urging anyone who was within earshot of them to listen. Quite right, I thought ironically as a tiny part of my mind remembered Marge’s first assessment of him, one that I’d been far too sensible to see. Prince Charming, indeed.

Instead, at this minute, all that I was able to understand was that those same lips were on a steady, surefire course toward mine. And in that instant, I felt a sudden burning sensation welling up inside me, and I did what any sensible girl in my situation would have done.

I sneezed.

Day 17:
I sat before the mirror at my vanity table, an antique that had once belonged to my great-great-grandmother. Gran had left it at the house for me when she’d moved into the condo, claiming that it didn’t fit in with her more modern décor. I’...d always loved it, though, and even in the early preteen years when I’d just begun to spend those extra moments in the morning before school preening, I imagined myself in an earlier, forgotten era as I pulled the brush through my hair in an almost hypnotic trance. It was no wonder, then, that in a dream of an event that must have occurred centuries in the past, I’d pictured myself as the hopeful young mother standing at the ship’s prow, gazing eagerly into the distance for any sight of land. My childhood fantasies had seen me mostly in a bygone era, wearing high-waisted corseted gowns with frilly collars and long, flowing sleeves that belled out below me as I lifted my handkerchief to wave out my coach to passersby in the streets. My prince, of course, was always a dashing figure in a dark suede tunic and knee-length breeches with buckled shoes. Perhaps that was why I’d dreamed up the vision of Eleanor Dare, and replaced her faceless image with my own.

I dragged my fingers through my damp hair, noticing the gentle wave in it as I did. I never had the patience to let it dry on its own, and always forced it straight with the blow dryer. I absently twirled a thick section of it around my hand and let it drop, watching it carelessly unfurl, and wondered what it would look like if I left it to its own devices. I honestly didn’t feel like dragging out the hair dryer, anyway.

I pulled open the drawer where I normally kept my hairbrush and frowned to find it empty. Thinking I’d put it back in the wrong place, I reached for the drawer below it and grasped the handle. The drawer was stubborn, though, and eased open only an inch or so before it stuck. It was hardly surprising, considering I couldn’t recall having opened it much, if at all, since I’d inherited the table. I gave it another slight tug, not wanting to force it. Gran didn’t seem to have much interest in the piece, but I hardly thought she’d be pleased if I broke a family heirloom. The drawer opened about another half inch, and I thought I felt something grating against the back of it as it moved. Mentally crossing my fingers, I pulled one more time, and the drawer suddenly gave, almost coming off the tracks as it slid fully open. What caught my attention, though, was the soft thud I heard on the carpet underneath it.

Day 18:
“This is the part where I give you the ‘I’m not gonna be around forever’ speech,” she continued. “I realize it’s a little clichéd, but you’ve got to allow me that, because I never throw clichés at you. You’re the only grandkid I’ve... got, and watching you grow up was like getting the chance to raise your mother all over again. She was a good kid, Lane, don’t mistake me for a second, but there are things I wish I could have done differently with her. She never really brought your dad home to meet me. I’d look out the window and see him pulling in the driveway on that blasted motorcycle of his, she’d run out the door to meet him, and they’d be off. He became a very big part of her life in a very short period of time. Then she came home one night and burst into the kitchen with big shining tears in her eyes and told me she was expecting you. Your grandfather damn near hit the roof when he heard that, and I thought I might pass out cold right there on the linoleum, but your mother, damn her or bless her, she was happy.”

I’d never heard this much about my mother before, and I was loath to interrupt her. “She was?”

“Oh, of course. Never seen her so excited in her life. She wanted you in a bad way, Lanie. She was always the nurturing sort, and even being eighteen years old and barely out of high school, she wasn’t afraid. And of course she was already crazy about Richie. She’d been planning their wedding all out in her head from the second she laid eyes on him, I’m sure, and having you added into the mix… she said you were a little bit of him, and a little bit of her, and that was her idea of heaven.”

“What about him?” I asked hesitantly.

“Scared shitless,” she replied bluntly. “He’d seen your grandfather at work in the yard a few times when he’d come to pick your mom up, and I think at that particular moment he was picturing the old man swinging a gardening hoe down onto his skull, and to be honest with you, there were a few minutes when I wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t. But he just stood there at the counter, sipping at his coffee, gave Richie a long, hard look, and said, ‘Well, son, I hope you plan to make an honest woman of her.’ And before your dad could get a word in edgewise, your mom shot her left arm out and waggled her ring finger at us. Apparently they’d thumbed through the yellow pages and found a justice of the peace who hadn’t heard of Old Man Corrigan and his menacing gardening hoe, and they’d stopped in and had themselves a tidy ten-minute ceremony on their way over. It was about that time when I noticed a knapsack slung over Richie’s shoulder, and when I asked him about it, he said that his pa had kicked him out. Imagine that. So he came in that night, and he never left.”

I recalled the yearbook photos in my memory, and vivid pictures of them leapt into my mind. I couldn’t help but be entranced by the story. “What happened then?”

“He got a job doing oil changes and the like at a gas station downtown, and your mother settled right into nesting. She was hell-bent on learning all the typical wifely stuff, and she kept begging me to teach her to cook and sew and all that. The cooking I could help her with – your great-grandma Ginny was an absolute natural in the kitchen, and she left me a whole mess of recipes – but I was at a loss with the whole sewing thing, so I sent her to Helen McCoy up the block. And she went into a frenzy, cooking and cleaning and sewing and knitting little booties and blankets and every little thing you can imagine. I’m pretty sure she would have started on your wedding dress if I hadn’t made her put down the needles and get some sleep at night.” I heard a soft laugh, and I only wished I could have been there to see the warm, wistful look I was sure was on her face. “You were her best thing, Lane. You really were. And she knew it. Even before you showed up, she knew it, and she realigned her whole world for you to be right smack in the center of it. She was always a special kid, but you… you made her into someone even I never knew she could be.”

I swallowed a large, aching lump that had risen in my throat. “That’s good to know, Gran.”

Day 19:
The added element of the sudden drop in the slope of the road sent a flurry of fresh butterflies into my stomach, and I couldn’t help but let a tiny squeak escape my lips, my eyes squeezing shut. I couldn’t hear his answering laugh..., but I felt the telltale shaking of his muscles as he did. I made a mental note to take a good swipe at him once he’d dropped me safely back at home.

“Relax!” He called over his shoulder. “You’ve a death grip on my ribcage. Let yourself be at ease!”

“I don’t see how I can,” I muttered, too quietly for him to hear, but made an effort to loose my hold on him, settling my arms and allowing my elbows to unlock. I pried my eyes slowly open, determined to allow myself whatever enjoyment I could possibly take from the frantic flight. The first thing I saw was the pavement as it whizzed beneath us, the painted yellow lines blending together in a steady blur. It was oddly comforting to know that there was something firm and solid beneath us, that we weren’t hurtling blindly through space and time to some unknown destination.

The thought called to mind imaginings of what he must have had to go through to get here. I braved a glance up at him, his focus intent on his path, his shoulders relaxed even as he kept a firm grip on the handlebars. No wonder a fast-moving twentieth century invention didn’t faze him. Being thrown through four centuries in an instant had to have happened at a breakneck pace.

The realization made me feel all the more foolish for having such a deathly fear of the ride. I scooted forward and pulled my spine straight, feeling the aching protest of my muscles, which had settled into a crouch behind him. The road took a slight rise and I felt the bike begin to climb, slowing slightly as its momentum dwindled. Peering over his shoulder, I saw the approaching fences of the Neary farm on the right, and I could make out the shapes of their cows grazing in the field, tails swishing lazily in the breeze. To the left, the thick stand of trees remained unbroken by settlement or cultivation, and even being altogether consumed by the flood of adrenaline pulsing through my veins, I took the time to wonder why old Mr. Neary had never purchased the acres on the other side of the road to plow and settle for crops. I recalled memories from my childhood of Gran taking me to the farm in the summer for strawberry picking, and pumpkins in the fall…

My train of thought was interrupted as the road dipped again and the bike picked up speed. My heart leapt into my throat and my lips popped open, this time to issue forth a startled giggle. It took me by surprise, and the brief tension in Alexander’s shoulders assured me that it had done the same for him. He relaxed after an instant and glanced down, offering me a reassuring smile. I looked up and offered him one of my own.

“Well then,” he said as quietly as he could in order to still be heard over the engine’s roar. “You may be fit for this after all.”

Day 20:
The path rounded once more, and we approached the entrance of the burial ground. “On the day we sailed,” he continued, “I came down into the parlor of the manor to find Master White standing before the hearth that Ananias had rebui...lt, staring up at the portrait of Eleanor that had been her gift to him. He imparted to me that his heart had grown heavy with the loss of her these past few years, for while he remained ever hopeful that he would find her content and well on the island, he also found himself faced with the fear, and the very real possibility, that a more dismal fate could have befallen her in his absence. He drew nearer to the hearth, then, and reached for the pair of pistols that he kept on the mantel. One of these he took in hand, and the other he held out to me. I took it from him without question, as it did not seem to be the proper time for words. With nothing further passing between us, he headed for the door, and I followed.

“We anchored a short distance from Roanoke on the eve of the sixteenth of August, fifteen hundred ninety. We fired our cannon to signal our return and prepared two small boats to brave the treacherous channels leading to the island; myself on one, White on the other. As we made ready for launch, one of the mates gave a shout, and we spotted the smoke of a great fire rising in the distance. It was a sign of hope for some, as it seemed to indicate that the settlers had heard the shots and had lit a signal flame in response. I had a foot set upon the railing to lower myself from the ship, I felt my master’s hand upon my shoulder. I turned to him, and his eyes were set with a fierce determination. I knew without having need to ask that his mind was on the murder of George Howe. ‘Alex, lad,’ he said, ‘You’re as near a son to me as I shall ever have, and if I’ve done you any kindness in these years of your service to me, if you have loved me as I have you, if you have loved Eleanor… I ask that you only do me one thing in return. Should I not reach the settlement, for any reason, I want you to find her. Find her, and see that she is well. And if she is not…’ He did not finish the statement, but merely nodded to the pistol at my belt.”

I fell into step silently beside him at the head of the path, and we descended the steps together. As we reached the bottom, he pulled his hands from his pockets and seated himself slowly on one of the rough stone stairs. Wordlessly, I seated myself beside him, unable to tear my eyes away as he stared off toward the east, where the sun climbed ever higher in the sky. “For twelve years of my life, John White was my mentor, my father, and my friend. He had taken me in as his own during a time when I had none other to see after me, and it was only on this particular evening that he had ever thought to ask anything of me.” He dropped his gaze to glance at hands that had once carried John White’s pistol, and with it, a promise he felt himself bound to fulfill. “I thought it no less than my sworn duty to grant his request.”

Day 21:
“You followed him into the woods,” I began, telling it directly as I’d seen it in the dream. “It was rough and uneven ground, and you nearly lost your footing a few times. He knew it, though, and he almost vanished into the trees. ...All that kept him in your sights was…” I paused, allowing my eyes to fall shut once more, to better see the picture that grew more and more vivid in my mind with the telling. “…the light of the moon. It was full that night. He veered off the path, leading you into a deeper part of the woods, and abruptly vanished between the trees. You followed, finding yourself in a small, barren clearing. There was something about the ground there. It… glowed. There was a boulder in the center of it that rose a few feet from the ground and was flat across the top. You stopped at the edge of the clearing and watched as he climbed on top of it. The wind began to howl, and he lifted his arms and called to it, and the earth seemed to reach up and…” I frowned, trying to give proper description to what I was seeing. My eyes opened, and I turned to him as I grasped for the words.

“…it swallowed him up,” he finished, his lips barely moving as the words issued from them.

“That’s it,” I said, nodding firmly. “That was how it went.”

He shook his head, brows furrowed deeply. “You saw it.”

I felt a knot of dread in my stomach, as though it were actually trying to physically digest the things that seemed to be coming together between my conscious and unconscious mind. “I’ve had dreams,” I said. “A few of them. I saw him, and I saw you, and… I saw her. Eleanor, on the passage to America. I heard her say she was going to name her daughter Virginia. There was something about her, though. Her face just seemed…” I hesitated, not certain how to describe my vision of Eleanor Dare without sounding like a raving lunatic.

He watched me, rapt with attention as he listened. I saw a certain tenderness in his face, and I recalled John White’s last words to him as he was lowered to the waiting boat.

“If you ever loved Eleanor…”

“You were in…” I stopped, wishing I knew how to phrase the question without sounding intrusive. “She meant a lot to you, didn’t she? You leaped four hundred years into the future trying to find her.”

I saw the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, his voice thick with memory, and something else I couldn’t quite place. “Yes, I did.” He turned to face me, and a hand reached tentatively up, his fingertips tracing my jawline. “And in the moment that I first looked upon your face, Lanie, I swear I was certain I had.”

Love, Loss, and Lessons Learned: Week 2 in Review

And thus week 2 draws to a close. So, too, do a few other things.

It seems only fitting that at this point in my noveling, I should take a moment to stop and look around. Chronologically speaking, I'm at the halfway point of what has (so far, anyway) been the most inspiring, challenging, and rewarding month of my life. The story should be half over by now, and I'm not quite certain that I'm at that point just yet. I come in well ahead of my word count daily, so it's not exactly quantity that I'm concerned with. What I have to do now is keep my eyes on letting (as No Plot? No Problem! author Chris Baty puts it) my 49,999th and 50,000th words be "The" and "End." (Okay, so "End" is probably going to clock in somewhere around 68,882 at the rate I'm going, but you get the idea.) In order to accomplish that, I'm going to have to set my sights on pushing for plot advancement and not dawdle on the details along the way, as I so love to do.

Anybody who knows me well or has spoken to me in the last few days knows that this has been an extremely rocky week. Nothing, save this literary adventure of mine, has been ideal very recently. A good friend of mine from back home lost her little brother in a car accident over the weekend, and it's one of those times when I pound my fists in frustration that I'm so damnably far away from the majority of the people I love most. I'm the sort of person who always wants to be there for people, and it kills me (gods, my apologies - no pun intended) when I can't. I stayed up once until 4am to be absolutely certain I won a vintage Kenner Millennium Falcon on EBay to give to my brother for Christmas. When I was in high school, I heard the guy I had a crush on was home sick with a cold, so I raced over to his house armed with ice cream, soup, and a DVD of one of his favorite movies. I've faced rain, snow, and dead of night just to sit with a friend whose car broke down so they didn't have to wait for the tow truck alone. I probably shouldn't broadcast this to people, but the fact is I'd go to the ends of the Earth for anyone I care about, if for no other reason than to give them pause to think, "Dang, that chick is crazy. But she must really like me."

The unfortunate part in all that is that recently, when I've had any kind of downer situation, whether it was something minor as a lousy day in the office or something as big as a family crisis, there was one person I was hoping would be there for me... who wasn't. What's more, I had a lot of big, exciting moments that I wanted to tell to someone, too, and that one person I so eagerly wanted to share them with always seemed too busy focusing on his own hectic life to give much thought to mine. It's strange who we choose to play the starring roles in our lives, especially since in my case, it usually ends up being someone who never shows up to the set when he's called. There may be others standing in the sidelines who would have the proper dedication for that sort of thing, but for one reason or another, they're just not right for the part, or else woefully committed to other projects. Some people just have that allure that somehow manages to distract from other aspects that leave them woefully lacking. People go nuts for Marilyn Monroe, but few realize what horrible work ethic she had, especially late in her career. (Yeah, I know I'm gonna get hate mail for that.) At any rate, the time came when I was forced to make a choice.

It's funny how one heartache can heal you from another. I don't really talk to any of my exes now, but when I think of them, I do still smile most of the time. And I'd like to think that in the unlikely event I ever ran into one of them now, I'd be able to have a conversation with him without any bitterness involved. Maybe it's because he wouldn't be the most recent "ex" anymore. (Though this more recent heartache is less of an "ex" and more of a "never quite was," but I digress.) So maybe some one of these days, a few years from now, I'll be able to talk to this person and say, "Hey, it's really okay, I think I just showed up at the wrong time in your life."

Not right now, though. For now, all I can really say to this person, who will likely never read this, is that I have no regrets, because I can honestly say that there was nothing I didn't do to try to win you over. I met every idea you threw at me with unhampered enthusiasm, not just because I wanted to earn points with you, but because I honestly believed that you were the sort of person who could make things happen. I do wish you'd had half the confidence in me that you did in yourself, but I suppose that point's moot now. For all your planning and striving and working toward your goals, there was one thing you left out. And I'm sorry, but I just can't wait any longer.

I have a point, I promise.

I suppose I'm venturing far too much into the personal realm now, but as anyone who writes more than shopping lists can tell you, everything that affects me in any significant way is going to impact what happens when I sit down at the keys. I've had a couple of fairly big shakedowns rattle me this week, and wouldn't you know it, I still exceeded my word count every single day. Maybe it's because my writing was the one thing I felt was stable, the one stationary point I could hold onto when so many other things in my world seemed to be spinning rapidly out of control. This week was, in a word (or two), the pits. But I'm still ahead of my game, and I'm eager to put it all to bed. I'm pleased to report that I've discovered that there are some dreams it's perfectly okay to let go of, and that you should never, ever fight for something that doesn't make you happy anymore, simply because it once did.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do. There's a framed sketch of me that an old flame of mine once drew and gave to me for Christmas that I took down after we stopped talking, because I couldn't bear the sight of it anymore (one thing I'll say for him - he was a very thoughtful lad). I think I've sufficiently exorcised my demons with him that I can safely put it back on my wall now. I'm going to grab a hammer and nail and hang up a reminder that old wounds do heal, and that there's no reason to throw the good memories out with the bad. And then, I'm going to sit myself back down and dive into tonight's noveling. Week 3 beckons.

Oh, and to my most recent loss - aside from the casual reference to a nice head of hair on my male protagonist, no, I am not going to put you in my novel.



Week 2 Snippets:

Day 8:
...Not likely, a voice in my head cautioned as I saw the stout figure of Dr. Fletcher stroll through the door. I groaned inwardly. If there were one moment in his maddeningly anal retentive life that Fate would choose to pluck him ...from one of his obsessive routines and throw him into my lap, this would be it.

Dr. Ervin Fletcher was a Professor Emeritus in the Archaeology department, and head of Special Collections in the library. He was also the sort of person who would (and did) write letters of complaint to the publishers of Scientific American for binding their subscription cards crookedly in their issues. His fastidious attention to detail and strict punctuality, not to mention his recent retirement from academics, made him a natural choice for the position. It also made him a royal thorn in my side.

It was a running joke around the library that the Royal Observatory in London set Greenwich Mean Time based on Fletcher’s watch, which normally worked to our advantage. He could be depended on to set foot in the library at promptly 10:36am every Thursday morning, just long enough for him to have walked from his house three blocks off-campus, stopped for coffee at the west end dining hall, checked in at his office in the Jenkins building, and taken a leisurely stroll down the path to the library. Today was Wednesday, and a quick glance at the clock on the counter revealed the time to be 11:42. Which is why he was the last person on Earth I expected, or wanted, to darken my doorstep.

Day 9:
“It’s funny how you don’t even notice it,” she continued, undaunted. “I saw how you looked at him when he walked in today.” She picked idly at her fingernails, her tone gratingly nonchalant. “I’ve made my share of bad judgment call...s, Lanie. I buy off the rack without even trying things on. I’ve got a five year lease on a ten year old car. Hell, I get my hair done by a woman who sent away for her beautician’s license from an ad in the Enquirer. But you? Hell, you don’t tie your shoes in the morning without giving a ten-minute pep talk to the laces. So you falling for an antiques thief? Call me crazy, I don’t buy it.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “You don’t buy it? You don’t even know him. How could you possibly know what he’s capable of?”

She leaned forward conspiratorially, arms folded on the desk. “Not him, sweets. You. Maybe you’re still trying to talk yourself out of it, but I can practically hear your breath catch in your throat whenever he carries his elegant British self through that door. And granted, I haven’t really known you for a long period of time, but you’re one of the most practical, levelheaded people in the world.” She held up a staying hand to still my protest before my lips could even form it. “…Or at least on this campus, which is sadly just about all I see of the world on a regular basis, anyway. So even if it hasn’t clued the rest of your brain in just yet, there’s one little corner of your mind that carries a torch for that boy, and I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t have happened without it having put him through some sort of Grade A full phase boot camp application process pulled straight from the modern woman’s dating handbook; a process which, mind you, I personally wouldn’t consider complete without a full physical exam, but your methods are entirely your own. So yeah, I think you’re safe. As for what he’s capable of?” She cast her eyes heavenward, allowing herself a moment’s daydream. “Well, I’ve got my theories on the subject, but you’ll just have to confirm them for me after you conduct the physical.”

Day 10:
“God,” he repeated with some thoughtful reflection. “It’s faith we come to again, is it?” He took a step toward her. “Is it your faith that sends you to distant shores then, Eleanor?”

“Faith is what gives me the fortitude to do so, ...Alexander,” she replied. “But it is not why I am here.”

“Why, then?” He prodded gently, and I saw a fire that was more than mere cordial warmth in his gaze.

She dropped an arm to her side, the other draped protectively over the swell of her belly. “England is a dangerous land, Alexander, perhaps even more so than the one we go to now. We are faced with acts of war and treachery. We cannot even practice our own religion openly. What sort of an uncertain world is it when even the Church is no longer safe?” She turned back toward the sea, casting her gaze out into the unknown. “When we next set foot on land, it will be in a place where there is no such danger, although I cannot speak for the numerous others that may await us. And perhaps I am foolish for thinking so, but it is a chance I am willing to take. My child shall take her first breath on American soil. And it is there that I shall seek to raise her.”

“Her?” He asked, glancing down at the bulge beneath her hand.

A soft laugh escaped her. “Yes… I’ve long been of the mind that this shall be a girlchild, although I suppose I’ve no real reason to think so.”

“Oh?” He turned away from the ocean, leaning his elbows on the railing. “And what shall you call her?”

“Why, I shall name her for her homeland, of course,” she replied. “Virginia.”

Day 11:
“Sorry I’m late,” I mumbled.

“Oh, honey, don’t be ridiculous,” Marge said, lazily turning a page. “The only thing I should be upset with you for is leaving me alone to entertain myself with this dime-store drivel.”

“Why do you read i...t, then?” I asked, crossing idly to the window and peering out through the blinds at the gloomy, slate-gray day.

“Not like there’s anything else to do around here,” she muttered, her tone almost bitter. “Ten’ll get you twenty the only people we’re going to see in here today are going to be wandering in like lost sheep off the moors. You can’t see a thing with that fog out there. I was actually starting to get a little nervous with you being late. I figured maybe you’d gone off the road and wrapped your car around a tree or something.”

I smirked, glancing over my shoulder at her. “I doubt very much that even the dashing Dr. Fleet would be able to snatch me back from the jaws of death in that case.”

“Hey,” Marge protested with mock offense. “Don’t even think about it. He’s for me. You’ve already got that young British buck nipping at your heels.”

“If he is, I certainly haven’t seen him,” I observed. “Although it’s damn near impossible to see anything out here today.” I cast another furtive glance outside toward the parking lot.

“He’s not here,” she said without looking up from her book.

I swiveled around, irritated both at her assumption that I’d been looking for him and at the fact that she had been at least partially correct. I splayed my hands stubbornly on my hips. “I didn’t ask.”

“Unh hunh,” she said again, and I thought I felt her eyes following me as I headed for the stacks in dogged pursuit of something to occupy my morning.

Day 12:
I remained curled up on the couch all night, falling into the occasional fitful doze. I awoke every time his face appeared behind my eyelids, interrupted occasionally by that of the menacing visage of an Indian warrior decorated wi...th raven’s feathers, or the shimmering eyes of the young woman at the ship’s railing.

It was well before dawn when I finally gave up the struggle, rising and moving toward the kitchen, barely feeling my own footsteps as I walked. It was almost as though I were still in the dream that found me standing aboard the ship on the Atlantic crossing. I poured some coffee and sat at the small kitchen table, staring out the window into the backyard. Even in the predawn gloom I could see that the mist remained, casting its heavy pallor over every living thing in its path. I hugged my arms to my chest, struggling to remind myself that just as Kendall was a common name, Alexander Kendall was a name that could easily have belonged to more than one person. Another Alexander Kendall could have known the family motto and have requested to have it engraved on his tombstone. It was another Alexander Kendall who now lay silent and still in that forgotten grave beneath the sassafras trees.

Why, then, was I now filled with an unshakable sense of foreboding?

Day 13:
What happened at that moment could have been an answer to my silent, desperate prayer, or it could have been a matter of simple mechanics. The jolt to the door jostled the lock into its trick spot, and the key made a full, easy rot...ation. The door gave way as I pressed against it, and time seemed to slow around me as I stumbled easily into the foyer, slamming it solidly shut behind me. It was only after my hand found the deadbolt and gave it a solid turn, when the bolt clicked reassuringly into place, that I was able to focus on the fact that I had not taken a proper breath in almost a full two minutes.

As if immediately catching onto this fact, my brain’s wiring immediately began to misfire. I saw sparks of light like lazy fireflies swirling in dancing arcs before my eyes. Anything other than what was directly in front of me became lost to the darkness that descended over it. A moment earlier, time had seemed to slow to an interminable crawl; now, it was as though it had been kicked into hyperdrive. Funny, I’d always thought night took a lot longer to fall than this.

My body responded almost instantly to the blackness that crept in around me, and I felt instantly fatigued. A dull hum like an oncoming swarm of bees sounded from somewhere far off. I sank lazily against the door as my eyelids drooped, and there was a heaviness in my limbs that made me wonder for a brief moment if I’d somehow been drugged when I wasn’t looking. The thought didn’t concern me overly much at the moment, though; all I wanted was to lay down, or at least to sit. I turned my head slowly toward the living room off to my left and stared at the couch, which seemed an unfathomable distance away. No… too far. I pulled in a shallow breath, realizing that no matter how I tried, I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. As I made a vain effort to inhale, I slid down the length of the door until I found myself seated on the floor. My field of view was now restricted to a tiny pinprick of light, one steady, stable point among the fireflies. The hum of the bees was now a roar so loud as to be almost deafening. Wanting to rid myself of it, as well as the awareness of anything else my senses were at the moment incapable of handling, my eyes drifted shut, and I was abruptly rewarded with silence and darkness.

Day 14:
“Perhaps I’d best explain what brought me to the shores of America in the first place.” He lifted his teacup, took a long swallow, and set it on the coffee table beside mine. “As I said upon our first meeting, I was born and raised in South...wark. My father’s name was Abraham, and he made his living laying brick. He was proud of his trade, and was desirous that I should follow his footsteps into the Tilers and Bricklayers Company. Upon my coming of the proper age, however, I proved somewhat less than apt with mortar and trowel. Upon entering the company in my fourteenth year, he set me beside a tiler by the name of Ananias Dare, who was not much older than I but already adept at brick work. We got on well from the first, and Nias, as I knew him, was always exceedingly patient with my fumblings. My father, bless him, was not always so patient, and his appraisals of my efforts amounted to mere grunts of dismay when he would pass by and see that I’d lain two rows when the men on either side of me were already at work on their sixth. It was only after a misstep with a hammer and chisel that very nearly cost me my right thumb that he at long last threw his hands in the air and declared me entirely unsuitable for the trade. He sat with me that afternoon as Goodwife Merrick stitched my thumb and began to talk, and I don’t think he stopped until she’d torn my own shirt from my back to use for dressing and sent me on my way with a swift pat to my backside and a bottle of brandy for the pain. The brandy hardly seemed necessary, at that. I made it through the surgery without breaking a sweat, so focused was I on his proposal. Come to think of it, I’m rather convinced that was what he intended.”

In the brief time I’d known him, this was as animated as I’d ever seen him. I suppressed a small smile as I reached for my teacup, nodding for him to continue.

“In any event, even as the goodly Mistress Merrick was reassembling my hand, my father made it clear to me that while he was sore disappointed that I would never be any good for laying brick, he had every intention that I be good and true at something in my life. It was upon the breaking of the very next dawn when he marched me across the river to St. Martin to meet John White, an artist I had long admired, and as it happened quite the patron of games of chance. And so it happened that in the common room of Morley’s Tavern that morning a game of cross and pile took place, upon which my father offered as his wager the apprenticeship of his only son. The coin was tossed, my father called cross, White took pile. It fell cross, and my father gave a bow to Master White, bid him good day, and set off for his day’s work, trowel in hand. I was left to the care of John White, and by the time my hand had healed, the very first thing that was placed into it was a paintbrush.”

The haves, have nots, and the path to self-discovery: Week 1 in Review.

I just put down my pep talk for week 2, and I feel... elated.

The book (No Plot? No Problem! by Chris Baty, for those who may have forgotten) cautions of some of the stumbling blocks that week 2 presents. Plots ambling aimlessly on toward nothing, characters and dialog that fall flat. Lack of inspiration. Losing steam. I am happy to say that, while I'm aware that this could always change, I am suffering from none of those problems. I was also delighted to learn that on the eve of beginning week 2, I have already accomplished the task set forth for me by the guidebook I'm reading: a major plot point. Something big and exciting has to happen to further the plot. And as of just a few paragraphs ago, it already has.

I recall the beginning of Day 1, when I woke with giddy anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning. This was the day, I thought. I had my ideas, my setting, my characters, and a band of friends standing on the sidelines ready to cheer me on (and to give me a swift kick in the pants when I needed it). I'm really going to do this, I thought. And I knew that just for having the idea, there was a whole slew of people (myself included) who were already proud of me. That was really all the fuel I needed to begin. So I did. Of course, I've had a few moments of fear, and one of near-panic, when I wondered if I had any clue what I was doing, if this would turn out like my many foolish youthful artistic pursuits: ballet class, trumpet lessons, watercolor painting, voice lessons (okay, that one wasn't my fault - the teacher made me cry), flute lessons, and dating a drummer. I went into all of these things gung-ho full steam ahead at first, and quit most of them within two weeks (I wanted to ditch the drummer at the end of the first, but my friends wanted me to hang on for another seven days or so just to be sure). I really didn't want this to be another round of flute lessons. But my big fat mouth has served me well thus far, in that by shouting like the village crier about my intentions at the top of my lungs to anyone who will listen, I've guaranteed myself a legion of devout followers who are doing as they've pledged and encouraging me every step of the way. I've posted my daily progress via word counts and snippets on Facebook, as many of you have seen, and there hasn't been a day gone by when I haven't gotten about a half a dozen "likes" and comments. I'm not writing this for the acclaim, not by any means, but it sure as hell helps keep me going. I'm very grateful that I haven't lost my zeal for this thing, not even a little, but it's a relief to know that when I find myself hurtling at terminal velocity toward some frightening literary abyss from which I may never wish to pull myself, I've got that support network as a backup chute. I'm counting on it to pull me through a day to come when I'm feeling especially low and wanting to abandon the whole thing, if only to say, "Hey, there's people who want to read this. Even if I don't give a fig about it at the moment, I don't want to let them down." And in this process, as odd and clichéd as it may sound, something truly wonderful has happened.


What's happened?

I've inspired. I've had a handful of people tell me that they've got this thing they put on a shelf a long time ago that they're now thinking of dusting off. And that really floors me. Whether it's something as simple as cleaning out the garage or something as huge as getting your Master's degree, every one of us has some project that we've kind of pushed aside, mostly out of the intimidation because we don't think we'll ever really be able to accomplish it. I've got plenty of them myself, this book not being the least of them. I've got a few things I've always wanted to do but never really tried, partially because of laziness or constraints in time or finances, but more so because I was just too freaked out by the idea that I might fail. And failure is a real possibility with anything worthwhile we ever attempt. It's to be expected, at some point in life. And if you're anything like me, you'll fall down a lot more than you fly. Personally, I was just too afraid to fall down. I've always been very hard on myself, and I didn't want to go through the self-ridicule and shame I know I'd put myself through if things didn't work out in any of these ventures. I figure it's probably somewhat the same for a lot of people. So the idea that I may have inspired someone, even just one person, to jump over that huge-ass hurdle, knowing from personal experience what they're facing on the other side, is just freaking incredible to me.

I've structured. I'm not an organized person. Anybody who has ever seen my bedroom can attest to this. I've got papers and books and clean laundry (folded, but not put away) everywhere. I just can't be bothered to put anything where it belongs, because I figure it's just going to be more convenient to pluck it from wherever it happens to land. But every single night, without fail, I've marched myself home to write, forgoing workouts, TV, reading, and any other sort of leisure time, indulging only in a little bit of background music (instrumental only - I find that anything with words distracts me from my own) to keep me company while my fingers pound away at the keys. On a couple of occasions, I have turned down offers from friends to get together, and even ended evenings early in the midst of the merriment (which is often much harder) in order to get back home to my novel. And the funny thing is, it really doesn't feel like that much of a sacrifice, simply because...

I've loved. I love so many things about this book, and the pursuit of it in general. I love reading a good story, and the one way to guarantee a good story is to write it. I love the plot. I love the setting. And more than anything, I love the characters. So coming home to spend time with them isn't a chore, it's an absolute pleasure. For a while, I wondered what I would do with them. Should I have the token tough-as-nails woman or the rough-around-the-edges man? A chirpy best friend? A shadowy villain? Well... sort of. My characters do fall into stereotypes sometimes, but what real person doesn't? My protagonist is a lot like me, but she's more suspicious and cynical. My male lead is like many of the guys I've met and gushed over, but more polished. The coworker/friend is like some of my coworkers and some of my friends, but nosier than some, less fashion conscious than any of them, and overall a great deal more likable than you'd expect. The grandmother is feisty to the point of being almost crass, but she's also very motherly and loving. I honestly didn't plan much about these characters when I started out - it seems like a foolhardy thing to start writing a story when you don't know anything about the people you're writing about, but looking back, I'm happy I didn't. I've come to find that with the plot in mind, it doesn't much matter what my preconceived notions about the characters are - I dropped them smack into the story to see what would happen to them, and they've come to life without any coaxing whatsoever from me. In an odd sort of way, I don't feel like I created them, which is why I don't feel at all narcissistic in saying that I do in fact love them very much.

Perhaps even more amazing, though, is what hasn't happened.

I haven't mimicked. Sure, there are small elements here and there inspired by some of my favorite stories and authors. I've got a plot that revolves around time travel and historical events, which is reminiscent of the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon that I'm currently reading. There are some supernatural elements as there are in the Twilight series, which I read over a year ago, but really only bring themselves to light now because they were just so bloody popular, and I was afraid of inadvertently aping some of their qualities thinking it'd guarantee me a bestseller. I guarantee you, though, all of my characters (with a minor exception) are 100% human. There are no bloodsuckers or werewolves. And the methods of time travel behave a little differently than they do in the Outlander series. I knew from the beginning that I wanted a character to travel from centuries ago to the present day, but I struggled with how I was going to get him here. The idea hit me like a ton of bricks one day, and I have found, much to my delight, that for every idea I've had, there's been a bit of history and science that grounds it. (And no, I don't believe that the concepts I'm going to present in the story actually work, but there are a number of scientific facts and belief systems swarming around the concept that I think I could legitimately pass off the idea that it could happen.) Most fortunately, though, I've found that the ideas are enough unlike any of the ones I've read before that I can feel satisfied that I'm not repeating anyone else's work.

I haven't compromised. As I mentioned earlier, there have been many times where I've received invitations and offers from friends to do anything other than noveling on a few different nights. Each time, I politely declined, citing my reason. I'm really not ashamed that I'm giving up on bar-hopping or movies or simply socializing to spend time in front of my computer, which is a big thing for me. I used to be thrilled just to be invited out. Now, I figure, there's always going to be another invite. And barring a serious economic downturn, the bars will still be there next month. Although given the recent state of the economy, it's certainly possible. But I'm willing to take the chance on it. I've also forfeited participating in something that I was really excited to do at first, but when I realized that it might get in the way of my writing, I had to let it go. It wasn't an easy decision to make, but in the end, it steels my resolve even more, because I think things tend to feel worth a little more when you've had to give things up in order to get them.

I haven't failed. With each day, I've not only met, but exceeded my word count according to daily goal presented in the NaNoWriMo book. At this rate, I'm going to easily exceed the arbitrary 50,000 word count by the 30th day, although I'm mostly concerned with the actual progress I'm making. I don't want 50,000 words about nothing. I'm currently trying to blend quantity with progress, and I think checking in with myself daily is keeping me on track with that. I'm taking this thing one slow, steady word count at a time, and now, at the 1/4 checkpoint, I'm doing remarkably well.

I've had a lot of minor catastrophes in my life leading up to this point. Nothing earth-shattering, mind you, but things that affected me deeply and caused me to think... a lot. I doubted myself. I blamed everything that was going wrong on my own inadequacies, but I didn't really do anything to stop it. I guess I somehow figured that blaming myself was enough, and that if I thought so little of myself as to think I was incapable of fixing the problem, that would somehow rid me of the responsibility. It really only led me into a spiral of sitting around idly and waiting for things to change. Any idiot could have told me that they wouldn't, not for the better, anyway. But as is my firm belief, you can tell someone that the sky is blue until you're... well, blue in the face. But until they actually look up and see it for themselves, they're never really going to hear you.

At some point, I looked up. This endeavor is about more than me writing something that may or may not pop up on bookshelves across the country, or taking a thought that's been in my head for months and putting it down on paper. At this point, it's become about me proving to myself that I really am capable of a few worthwhile things, and that there are actually things I can manage on my own, and that once in a while, if you ask for something, you just might get it. In finding something like this that's worth pursuing, that gives back twofold for every bit I put into it, I've become painfully aware that there are some things I've been pouring my heart into that are utter and complete dead ends. I've made some bad investments of time and effort in the not-too-distant past, and while it's very hard for me to let go of these things that just didn't pan out, I realize that for every minute I take away from one thing, I'm pouring it into something even bigger.

Ahem. Sorry. (Why was I ever worried about a word count?) If you've made it through my sickening proselytizing, I applaud and thank you. As something of a reward, I've compiled my daily snippets for your perusal:

Day 1:

“I tell you what,” she called over her shoulder. “Give me a
half hour with you – a case of Avon samples
and a box of Ogilvie… you’ll be a new woman.”

“And a prime candidate for my own hosting gig on the
Home Shopping Network,” I muttered.

Day 2:

“Well, Officer,” Marge said playfully, “He was about six feet tall, between twenty-five and thirty, with dark hair and deep brown eyes…”

“So was the Unabomber,” I said pointedly.

“Honey, that was no Unabomber,” Marge said, flipping a hardcover edition of Great Expectations open and scanning its barcode. “That was Prince Charming.”

Day 3:

I found myself with a rather ridiculous vision of Alexander Kendall, wild-eyed and savage, ripping the precious ledgers in half with his bare hands. In my mind’s eye, he tore open cardboard boxes with his razor-sharp teeth, emitting a growl as he shredded registers and rare books. I was forced to laugh. “Yeah, right. Even I think I’m being ridiculous on that one.”

Day 4:

The stars above began to swim in large circles, faster and faster until they crashed into each other, shattering the heavens in a celestial explosion. Had he been able to look then, he would have seen a tall, young, dark-haired Englishman staring after him, his lips parted in awe. Intelligent though he was, this Kendall would never inherit the wind as he had done.

Day 5:

“I’ve not really done this before. I should hate to think that my inexperienced workmanship would leave you stranded at the roadside somewhere along your homeward path.”

“Why do you always talk like you just stepped out of finishing school?" I asked.

He threw his head back and laughed. “Forgive me, Miss Chapman. I am merely a product of my upbringing. From this point forth, I shall make every effort to act the complete scoundrel.”

Day 6:

My fingertips grasped the ring, feeling the solid weight of the metal in my palm. It looked rough in a way, and it was obvious from its slight imperfections that it hadn’t been engraved by a bit of machinery, but carved by the practiced and patient hand of a skilled artisan. I stared at it for a moment, attempting to understand the symbol that had been engraved on it, which was nothing like anything I’d seen before. I turned it about at a few different angles, but it wasn’t making any more sense to me than it had at first glance. “What is it?” I asked finally.

“A lion,” he answered, “Passant, to be precise. It is a symbol of valor.”

“Sounds like something you take pretty seriously.”

His nod was solemn as he turned to me. “I do.”

Day 7:

The memory of two days prior slammed into my brain with full force, to the extent that I absently lifted my free hand to my forehead. I had sat, legs curled under me in the safe haven of the archives, flipping through the photo album detailing the Croatoan dig. Among the many articles and pictures of the artifacts found, one of them had been missing; that displaying the insignia ring. And so had, I recalled belatedly, the ring itself.

I also recalled Alexander conveniently being at hand to assist when my tire was flat… for what purpose? A tiny knot of dread began to flourish and grow in my stomach. I’d not only allowed him to help me with my car, but to follow me home. He’d paused to admire my mother’s photo in the hallway, and what else? Gran had mentioned treasures in the attic. Was he now under the (albeit greatly mistaken) impression that there was something of value there? My breath caught in my throat. Ted had mentioned the horses he had stabled near Bennett. Did he mention where they lived? My mind scrabbled frantically for the answer.

No, but I had.


...And that, my dear friends, is week 1. As always, I thank you for sticking with me through this. I couldn't have made it this far without your gentle proddings. And now... on to week 2.